Lean on Me
by OneDarkandStormyNight
Summary: It was like all the other matches-Watson bets, Holmes fights, and they split the profit evenly between dinner and the rent...until Holmes was critically wounded by his drunk, enraged opponent. Joint fic between me and RoadkillHermes. Pre-movie. Not slash.
1. Chapter 1

_It's been much too long, I know! So sorry...*hides, embarrassed*  
This fic is dedicated to the sweetest, funniest, most awesome friend a little sister could have, _RoadkillHermes_. She sent this to me weeks ago, and I am afraid it has taken me much longer than either of us wanted for me to finish it. *hehe* It is impossible to say now that I have edited it which one of us wrote which sentences, but the following story is the product of both our work. She, however, came up with the idea _and _the title as well, so the credit goes to her brilliant, beautiful imagination. Love you!_

**Lean on Me**

The rooms is crowded and hot, thick with the scent of sweat, old rum, and cigarette smoke. Women of the night of all sizes and shapes wearing dirty, dust-coated gowns and layers of bright-colored blush laugh and chat up the pathetically eager drunkards that fill the place. Surrounding me, crowds of flushing addicted gamblers exclaim amongst themselves in utter incredulity and — most — great annoyance. Nearly every last one has lost his ever-so-confident bet.

I am, for all intents and purposes, caught up in the moment. The man who lays dazedly on the dirt floor behind me had been, until mere seconds ago, equally as confident in his fight as the other ninety-eight percent present. Now, I feel with a twinge of satisfaction, perhaps they have learnt not to so quickly underestimate the less bulky side of London's male boxing populous. (1)

I throw my fists in the air in shameless pride for my triumph and scan the crowds for Watson's tanned face. His distinctly handsome features are not difficult to find in the sea of sneering, ugly faces of sailors and construction workers and other such roughs. Partly to amuse him and mostly to irritate him, I crack a huge, rather undignified grin that is only common to me in moments when my powers of either physical or mental feats are proven. I have felled the mighty giant and can't help but revel in the praise of both the audience and, more notably, my former soldier friend.

Watson is slowly shaking his head from side to side, but I catch an approving smile (the same that he is unsuccessfully attempting to conceal behind his mustache) on his beaming face.

My long forgotten opponent lies behind me to lick his wounds and sulk over his loss of higher dignity.

All in one second, the atmosphere changes drastically.

Watson's delighted grin dies on his face, leaving behind a pallor of death. He starts to violently push through the crowd, coming toward me in an ocean of people. If not for my exceptional hearing abilities, I would not be able to hear his voice over the thunder of the crowd.

"Holmes! _Behind you_!"

Though I have only known Watson for a few short years, all during that time and the many countless dangerous and rather terrifying exploits I have never once known him to show anything akin to panic. It seems that he has a strength and courage about him that has its source not only in the training and effects of a conquered war, but from deep within himself; it is an exceptional quality that is very rare among men, and has no equalities. And yet, in this very moment, written across his suddenly pale face is an expression of utter helplessness.

I whip around, prepared for anything. I am not, admittedly, prepared for what greets me.

My opponent, whose durability I have somewhat miscalculated, is, in fact, not unconscious, as I perceived. Instead, his drunkenly outraged face is quite close enough to allow me the unpleasant stench of beer, tobacco, and rotting teeth. His thick right arm is extended forward as if to shake my hand, but I know better than to assume that is his intent. When I trace his arm down to his hand, I find his clenched fist at my stomach. But, to my surprise, that is where the fist has ceased — just before making contact with my gut.

That, however, is not the most surprising thing. No, what surprises me most is what is clasped in that fist, what takes me a few seconds to register. It is a three-inch silver hilt that reflects the light of the gas lamps above, making the beams dance and, I can swear, mock me. It takes no great deduction to know what is at the end of that hilt.

There is no pain, but somewhat in the back of my mind that inner voice that regularly murmurs facts and observations to me whispers that it is the adrenaline that makes me numb. Yes, that is why I cannot feel it. The adrenaline is still coursing thick through my veins from the fight.

My mind unconsciously starts to evaluate how long a knife belongs to a three-inch hilt, and I do not like the numbers I calculate.

My mind snaps back to the present when I feel an increased pressure in my gut. That is all. Still no pain as I sense the sharp steel of a steelworker's blade cutting through muscle and tissue. I only hope he missed the important stuff.

Blood, bright and thick, is coursing down the hilt. It takes me another moment to realize that it is my blood.

Then, I suddenly realize how silent it is around me. I know people are still in the stadium. Some probably still cheering, while others are screaming. I cannot hear any of it. All I can hear is a dull, low roar in my pounding ears. That voice speaks up again and whispers _shock_.

My mind screams at my body; I want to move, to fight, to defend myself, but I can feel my knees starting to go weak beneath me, and my usually sharp vision is going dark around the edges.

My eyes are still firmly fixed on the hilt that is attached to me, as if hypnotised by the glistening of the light on the blood. Then, without warning, the hilt is suddenly replaced by a rather wicked looking blade that is also coated in dripping, deep red blood. Another fleeting thought reminds me that it's mine.

When the steadying pressure vanishes, my knees decide they would like to introduce themselves to the dirt floor. My vision is swimming when I get a sudden intense sensation telling me that I need to look up. I do, and a vicious right hook greets me.

My body — already slightly exhausted from the match — cannot bear any more abuse, and decides (intelligently) to begin shutting down entirely. I collapse to my side, not even having the strength to raise my palms to catch myself, and I come to lie in a semi-fetal position in the dry dust.

The voice does not warn me this time when a heavy boot crashes into my chest, and a cry of surprise escapes my throat.

Already I am lying in a shallow pool of blood that is widening much faster than I would like. The blade must assuredly have penetrated something serious for me to be losing blood so swiftly, but unlike my good doctor I am not a medical man, and so beyond that I have not the slightest inkling of what the internal wound could be.

Faced with the sudden feeling of physical collapse and impending mental stoppage, my mind begins to work overtime in some vain attempt to observe and deduce its way out of death's grasp. Before I can control it, my thoughts latch onto the small puzzle of the knife. The man must have hidden it in that small, secret pocket I observed the moment he entered the ring from the opposite side — the one paid the lazy seamstress in Anwhether Square who never matches the fabrics properly to sew onto the side of his trousers. This he probably did because of the threats from the gang to which he owes opium money, but when I wrongly concluded that he was unconscious, his rather uncontrollable temper combined with the unhealthy quantities of rum he ingested all this night to give him the idea that the knife could be used for something other than steelworks or payment-seeking ruffians….

My train of split-second deductive though ceases when a very familiar pair of shoes appears in my line of vision. All I can see are the heels of the brown country-made leather and the hemmed bottom of the pant legs.

The momentary lapse in my mind is enough to slow it down nearly beyond reverse, and it takes my dulled deductive powers a disturbingly long amount of time to put together to whom the shoes belong. Each time the answer comes within my grasp it slips away like sand through my fingers.

It is not until the owner of the shoes suddenly shoots forward that I see the limp in the right leg. The voice again breaks through: _Watson_. But what the devil is he doing in the ring? Does he not know there is a hell-bent drunk with a sharp weapon running about the place? Has he no instinct of self-preservation whatever?

When my blurring eyes refocus after a momentary bout, I see my Watson quickly limping toward me, but he is yet too far away for his face to come into focus and I to discern his thoughts (as I am wont to do in our sitting room on caseless days as he sips his tea by the fire). I do notice in the background the general lumpy shape of my attacker, lying in a similar pool of red liquid; it does not take considerable abilities such as my own to see by his apparently vacant stare and slack jaw that he is dead.

I feel the sticky, warm liquid soaking my — Watson's — shirt and decide I must no be far behind.

Watson's shoes stop just short of the pool. Good. It would cost him more finances than he has in the small savings locked safely away in my drawer to purchase a new pair; there is no need to ruin perfectly decent leather. Ah, I should tell him where to find the key to unlock said drawer before I become completely incapable….

In the midst of my random brain ramblings, Watson falls to his knees beside me — staining his trousers with unremoveable blood, the fool — and his mouth is moving, saying my name, from what I can gather, but without sound. His eyes are shining mysteriously as one strong, calloused hand grips my shoulder and the other, I feel, rips apart the thin fabric of my — his — shirt.

My mind gives this no more than a passing notice, for I know that his efforts are useless. Still, I fear very few things, and death is not amongst those that unnerve me. I have done a great deal much in my life, however short it may seem, things that other Victorian gentlemen would never consider, more the less attempt. I have had clients consult my talents and experience from the most luxurious of Europe's stately manors and the dingiest of Whitechapel's corners. I have known the satisfaction of confounding every bothersome Yarder I have had the misfortune of meeting, and earning the respect of every brilliant and worthy criminal I have had the luck to encounter. I have saved many lives and salvaged much property, helped a good many lost and lonely men and women who had nowhere else to which they could turn. But more than any of that, I have somehow (despite my antisocial, bohemian nature and indifference to all else but myself and my little world) managed to attain a flat mate, partner and true _friend_ along the way.

As my vision darkens and my breaths become loud in my ears, I have the sudden, but not unwelcome, epiphany that all else matters naught with the knowledge that after I am gone, one soul on this earth will at least notice my absense, not for the lack of news in the papers, or for the desperate need and privation of a consultant, but for the mere comfortable fireside-evening companionship that is no more. I believe that I have finally realized there is more to this life than my own personal protection, that perhaps there are things that go beyond the importance my own meager existence. Perhaps that irrational thing they call "_amour_" really does exist, somewhere deep inside even the coldest of us. Watson has shown me that. I only wish now that I can in some way thank him sufficiently.

But my eyes start to drift closed. Slowly, each muscle relaxes and I ease back into the dirt.

I am ready to go now, I rather think.

Just as the noise is fading and my sight is blackening, a sudden onslaught of white hot tendrils of agony fire from my side and set a blaze inside my stomach. In an instant, every muscle in my body stiffens painfully. My back arches in response. My fingers claw the dirt, looking for purchase as if I might fly right off the ground. With a gasp of shock, my eyes fly open and all at once everything hit my senses in harsh waves.

I hear the crowd in the distance, some shouting or arguing loudly, most just trying to leave. I hear Watson yelling over the chaos to get help; my plight must indeed be a dire one, for his voice is saturated with that authoritative, inarguable tone that he only uses when the life of a patient or client hangs in the balance.

My breath is coming out in short, shallow gasps that I cannot control as I turn my full attention on the source of that familiar voice. Yes, he still hovers just as my side, his pale face filled with fighting determination and something else that is foreign to my perception. His voice now rings clear as he breathlessly addresses me, half-demandingly, half-pleadingly.

"Stay with me, Holmes, just a litter while longer. That's it, old fellow. Hang on. You've got to hang on, Holmes."

It is now, with my somewhat still weakened vision, that I note Watson is missing his jacket. An odd observation to make at such a moment, I know, but my brain latches onto the familiarity of a quite meaningless puzzle, struggling desperately to focus on anything other than the pain.

I take this little mystery by phase succession. Watson's jacket was on when he knelt down. The pain began seconds subsequent when I closed my eyes. The only logical conclusion that can be drawn is that he removed the jacket as a means to slow the bleeding of my wound. Hence, reawakening my numbed nerves which, in turn, sent the alarm to my brain of the penetration. Therefore, my system was flooded with adrenaline (wonders that any remains after all) and awakening me suddenly. This puzzle is something of a disappointment, as it only distracts me for less than three seconds.

Still, I try to sit up a bit to confirm my small theory, but Watson applies more pressure — blast him! — and I find myself collapsing back, a groan escaping me as bright spots dance obnoxiously across my vision.

I try to speak. To tell him it's too late, to just let me go in peace.

All I get through my useless lips is a shockingly croaky, "Wat…son…hurts…," as my sight blurs with tears of pain that come without my consent.

His watery blue eyes meet mine and the sad smile that he forces in that of a haunted soldier who has been through a great deal more than he deserves. He removes one blood-smeared hand to pat me encouragingly on the shoulder. "I know. I know it does, old chap," he murmurs, and his voice is oddly soothing (it is no great wonder why his list of medical patients lengthens by the day). "You've lost too much blood as it is, Holmes. I'm sorry, but it is absolutely necessary."

His is trying to maintain his usual composure of strength and optimism, but even with my dulled senses I can see the raw fear in his eyes. I wonder how many times he suffered through something as this during the Battle at Maiwand; how much loss and grief must one good man be put through before he can heal entirely?

A poignant weight pulls at my heart the same moment a physical weight hits my chest.

I cough to try to relieve some of the unbearable pressure and suddenly Watson's cursing. I feel myself giving him a look of utter surprise, not comprehending. That's when I taste copper on my tongue.

I am coughing blood.

Watson is yelling again, but it is not directed at me. I allow myself to drift; the pain lessens in intensity and my muscles start to relax once again.

Watson suddenly turns his full attention back to me and he yells, this time without any trace of equanimity, "No, Holmes! Holmes, stay with me. You have to stay awake. I know it's difficult, but you must fight. Fight, Holmes!"

His voice fades in and out, and it is becoming increasingly hard to hear his words — and to obey them. My eyes flutter spasmodically, so that not even his face remains an anchor for me.

"_Holmes_!" He shakes me, sending new waves of fire through my body to bring me back to reality. "Holmes, don't do this. Please don't do this. _Fight it_!" But it is of no consequence. The darkness is calling me, promising no more hurt.

Watson, in desperation, applies more pressure to my wound, but all he gets in response is a flucker of eyelids as they start to close, not to reopen.

"Sherlock!" he barks, and the sound of him using my Christian name, something I don't recall him ever saying before, arouses me ever so slightly. "Do _not_ do this to me! Don't you dare do this to me!"

The darkness envelopes me blissfully, like a loving mother does her lost child. A nagging thought demands I must tell him something before I go, something that might ease the sorrow of my leaving for us both. I push the words through my numb lips, hoping it is spoken in a voice loud enough for him to perceive.

"'m sorry."

The last thing I hear is Watson's broken, senseless phrases:

"Holmes, don't…that…I'm…care…you…you'll…fine…don't...HOLMES!"

And then I'm gone.

**To be continued…**

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(1) Vague reference to a certain humorous exchange between the canon Holmes and a man named Grimsby Roylott, in the short story _Speckled Band by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle._

* * *

_If you spot any errors, please don't feel too shy to tell.  
Reviews are like sunrises over the ocean..._


	2. Chapter 2

_At last this chapter is finished. My apologies for not updating..._anything_ lately. My muse has taken her summer vacation without me, I believe, without even so much as a "Gone fishin'" note.  
Anyway, this chapter is written in Watson's perspective, a re-write of the previous chapter. I know you all wanted the continuance, but I thought it would be fun and interesting to see what was _really_ happening while Holmes was wandering around inside his own head. Toward the end is where it gets most emotional for Watson, so I hope that's satisfactory. Oh, and if you want to throw pies at someone because you're angry for not knowing what happens to Holmes yet, direct them at _RoadkillHermes_; it was all her idea._

**Lean on Me  
****Part II**

This dark and dingy place bears witness to the mild gambling addiction I somewhat shamefacedly admit to possessing. In my own defense, all bets of my past had been small, with only the use of yellowed cards or old dice, but merely a week after moving the last of my boxes to 221b Baker Street, I learnt of my new flat mate's natural fighting ability (though I do wish he had simply told me instead of dragging me, distorted, into a brawl). Following that enlightening experience, I have since traded the bright sunlit world of topside gambling for the dark depths of the Punchbowl's violent, blood-spattered fighting ring.

This well-known pub is always dark and crowded a place as all manner of creatures, both human and not, press their unclean and foul-smelling selves together, selfishly claiming their individual spots in the stands from which they can watch the often gory fights.

Ah, but who can blame them now as they push and shove to get to the front lines? One of the greatest conflicts I have ever had the privilege to witness has just admirably unfolded before my eyes and all of those present. Voices all around me wonder aloud and to no one in particular who the _bloody devil_ is this little man who has just exhibited such stunning grace and agility in bringing down their (previous) champion. Who _is_ the David who has just defeated his Goliath?

I cannot help but feel a childish pride in the knowledge that _I_ know the name of the new victor, and he is none other than my flat mate and bizarre friend Sherlock Holmes.

I can hear the grumblings of the less pleased of the mob ringing in my ears — those who have lost their money on such a (they assumed) absolute opportunity to make their wallets fatter. Ironically, one of the dominant lessons I have learnt from my new friend is that rarely is anything as absolute as it appears.

A prime example is that of the giant of a man who had the unfortunate draw of the card which matched him with Holmes. People had, in some unfortunate cases, quite literally fought _each other_ to place their bets.

I waited until a few of the more inebriated of the crowd dispersed, some nursing bruised jaws or twisted arms, before making my way to the bookie. He was all too eager to take my money, and it did not take Sherlock Holmes' deductive powers to see that he was positive in his own mind that I had already lost said money. Now, I smile smugly as I anticipate the stunned expression that will certainly adorn his ugly face when I collect the small king's ransom that awaits me.

Though I pretend otherwise when he presses, I do admire the tousle-headed man who throws his arms up triumphantly in the ring, his naturally pale face alight and blushing pink in a rare (for him) bout of giddiness. His eyes find mine easily and he flashes one of his infuriating look-what-I-did-Watson smirks.

As always, I maintain the role I have come to accept as the stern protector and parent of the reckless madcap and shake my head as if to reproach him for such an undignified display of arrogance. Yet, unlike my friend (as he has remarked several times on foggy, caseless days in our rooms), my feelings are ne'er hidden in my expressions, and I cannot fight the smile that crosses my face, betraying my approval for a fight well won. My slip just seems to add more fuel to his fire as he turns away from his opponent to receive the full praise (what little there is) from the mixed crowds.

With his still-heaving back facing his defeated opponent and his dark eyes wandering over the many faces, Holmes is entirely unaware of what is occurring behind him.

My amusement evaporates in an instant, the tolerant grin fading like a shadow, as I watch the man roll onto his side. A wicked-looking blade appears in his meaty fist. My eyes flash again to Holmes, and I feel all the blood drain beneath my desert-tanned skin. He does not know he is in danger.

Every command from the more rationale part of my mind is overwhelmed by this dire realization, and I begin to shove my way brutally through the grimy crowd, a sudden, hot anger rising in me when I hear, somewhere from my left, a man's voice elatedly shouting something to the extent of, "'E'll be killed! The fight ain't been lost after all!"

"Holmes, behind you!" I scream loud enough for my vocal cords to throb, pleading in my mind that Providence allows it to carry over the noise.

By some miracle, Holmes not only hears but understands as well, judging by the hastiness with which the glee vanishes.

By this time, the murderous man has clumsily regained his feet and launched himself ravenously at Holmes. In the instant that my friend whips around, the heavier man reaches his target mid-leap.

My heart stops dead in my chest.

The blade has vanished. It is lodged to the hilt in Holmes' stomach.

I know that my friend's unexpected spin around in itself is a miracle, for the blade was obviously meant for his spinal cord, in which case he would have died near-instantly. Still, my medical mind — expertly trained on the bloody battlefields of Afghanistan — forces to the forefront every bit of human anatomy I have ever learnt, and I feel myself bristle at the knowledge of what life-giving parts lay beneath the skin of muscle of man's belly.

_Let it have missed them…please…let it be fixable…_

Even as I silently pray, I can see without difficulty that it is not.

By this time, the mob has turned against me, and dozens of near-panicked people are trying to push and force their way toward the stairs; I am making no headway in the ocean of bodies. I cannot pull my eyes from my wounded friend, and I see with a sinking feeling that he has not moved such much as an inch, his eyes remaining locked on the handle of the knife.

Even from where I stand, I can see the same look on his face that I have seen at least a hundred times in our short companionship. He is thinking, contemplating, arranging his mind to take in the full gravity of the situation before he reacts. In all the predicaments of which I have been a (usually unwilling) part, seeing that unfocused glaze over his eyes is a sign of hope and security, like an unspoken assurance that he will devise a way to win over whatever it is that we face — even if it is death.

This time, however, the sight of it does not instill confidence in me, for I can only be alarmed at the long amount of time it is taking him to reach any type of conclusion. To say that Holmes' brain is slow equals the same as to say that the Almighty is sinful. There can be only one explanation for such an atypical occurrence: his body is going into shock.

I grip my walking stick and, with a blind surge I have not felt since the Battle at Maiwand, I use it as a crude battering ram against anything or anyone that I must to reach my friend. After what feels like centuries, I arrive ringside and am treated to a horrible sight.

The man pulls the knife from my friend's body with a superhuman ease and there is a clear view of the blade. It is dripping with thick, bright red blood. My firsts clench reflexively when I see how much of the life-sustaining liquid coats the metal.

I feel my nails cut into my palms when Holmes collapses to his knees in a cloud of dry dust. He yet maintains the deep concentration on his pale face as he distortedly blinks his gaze upward and the monster (I can only see him as such) roars, his fist coming into violent contact with Holmes' narrow jaw. I bite down until I can feel the pain reach the roots of my teeth when he falls limply onto the right side of his body and immediately pulls his thin knees up in an unconscious attempt to protect himself. Seemingly without thought, the merciless opponent throws his booted foot into Holmes' fast-moving chest, and my friend's pitiful cry of surprise leaves my vision obscured with red.

Even with my weak leg, I vault over the thin wooden wall with considerable ease. With all the force I can muster, I slam into the man just before he delivers another kick to Holmes' exposed face. The giant stumbles, momentarily stunned. I take advantage of his pause and move to stand over Holmes, shielding him with my own body.

My intervention has only increased the black fury. He turns a venomous gaze upon me; his black eyes are ablaze with lust for blood, his face purple-red with contained rage yearning for a release. His body mass is twice the size of mine, I realize, and his uncontrolled wrath makes him an equal match for my developed fighting skill and personal hatred for him.

I want to kill him, and even with the threats he presents I have little doubts that I could should I attempt it. So many times in Afghanistan I watched a man die and his comrade avenge him; the soldier that will always be within me is telling to now to do the same. Yet, at the same time, the doctor — the only part of me stronger than the soldier — reminds me of the vow I took so long ago. I made a promise before the board of the University of London, myself, and God the Trinity that I would do everything within my power to preserve the lives of those around me, and though I wish dearly that it were not so, this includes those who do not deserve mercy.

Hoping that I may strike a level of fear that may cause him to retreat, I take the walking stick still grasped in my hand and remove the sharp steel sword from its hiding place.

The man throws his head back and lets out a hearty laugh. Very well then.

Sword still drawn, I twist my wrist and let the blade skim across his misshapen knee, slicing breezily through the fabric and cutting a fine line through the flesh. I am compelled to admit the yelp that accompanies this is rather satisfying.

However, it is not enough. I hear myself gasp involuntarily when his shout of pain transforms into a roar of attack. In an instant, he hurls at me with all his strength, his sun-leathered face twisted gruesomely.

He is too blinded by wild emotions to recall the blade I still hold. The knife in his hand is an inch away from my throat when his face suddenly drains.

He is dead before he hits the floor and stirs the dust.

The dirtied sword drops at my feet from nerveless fingers, my shoulders slumping as the tension fades from my body.

My relief last for no more than a brief second. On trembling legs I limp to the shallow pool of blood where my friend lays fighting for his life. Unexplainably, I stop short as it registers that the ruined shirt he wears is mine, and then, suddenly, I am on my knees, ripping what remains of it.

A forced bit of air hisses through my nostrils as my eyes take in the wound. Blood is spurting from it, and I can see that the blade obviously nicked his stomach. This sort of wound is one of the worst attainable, not because the cut is irreparable, but because the patient has a great chance of dying because of the blood loss before he can receive medical aid. Already, Holmes' breathing is shallow and there is a painful-sounding rattle with each inhale and exhale. He is hurt, badly.

"Holmes!" I call his name is a voice that is not overly loud so as not to alarm him, but loud enough to acquire his fleeting attention.

Though unsurprising, his lack of response sends a cold wave of fear washing over me. I set to work, attempting to ascertain exactly how much blood has been lost, and how long I have before the limit is reached. I glance up at him for a brief second to ensure that his eyes remain opened, then my hands freeze like icicles, my gaze locking with horror onto his pale, pale face.

Holmes' expression is no longer one of dazed blankness, or even the mild confusion I had seen a few short seconds ago, Hi entire demeanor has changed drastically; the deep lines of forced concentration on his marble forehead have smoothed out, his brows are slightly raised (as I have seen in the past when an idea strikes him), his mouth is relaxed and I swear that in that moment I nearly see a small and soft smile playing at its corners. Yet, I scarcely notice any of this when my eyes once again meet his. Dear Lord, those eyes…I cannot say I have ever seen them look this way ever before. It is said that a man's eyes are the windows to his soul. I have always believed this to be true of Sherlock Holmes, whose eyes are, at all times, a dark brown shade of unguarded suspicion and cool observation, mixed with mild sarcasm and a light of egotism; they are unfeeling and solitary, a silent declaration of his self-reliant existence.

Now, the steely, cold depths have faded into a warm, open caramel. Made visible in the glowing orbs are every one of those deeper human emotions I have long-since excluded from the definition of him. Every thought, every feeling past his hard mask of reason is revealed to me alone, and for a mere second I can almost believe I am looking into the eyes of a tender child.

It is as if he has grasped something that has never occurred to him, like he comprehends something more than he knew, or finally realizes where he belongs. I wonder absently what it could mean…

He holds my gaze for another long moment, and then his eyes dim as the lids flicker.

_No, no, no…_

Throwing aside all gentleness, I roll him onto his back and then tear off my jacket. I knot it in my fist and push it firmly against the still-gushing wound, feeling myself physically jolt with relief when I am rewarded with a sharp intake of breath and I watch his eyes shoot open. That unnerving look of peace has diminished, leaving behind one of startled discomfort, like a pup kicked out of its slumber.

"I need help!" I shout franticly at anyone, and after a moment a small, bearded, red-faced man rushes forth. "Bring a carriage 'round back," I order brusquely, leaving no room for doubtfulness. "I've got to get him to a hospital as quickly as possible."

He offers a curt nod and disappears into the still-panicked people.

I look down as soon as he is gone. Holmes' face is paler, nearly gray, his brow furrowed again, this time clearly with the intense pain that his eyes are now reflecting. His jaw is clenched, and his thin fingers are scraping against the ground, his hands shaking convulsively. The sight of his suffering sends a pang through me.

"Stay with me, Holmes, just a little while longer," I murmur to him, as if that would help, struggling to keep my voice calm — and failing. I feel a surge of hope when his face fills with a sort of slight recognition, his eyes moving over my face, a hand flattening on the ground inches from my own. "That's it, old fellow. Hang on. You've got to hang on, Holmes."

A vague deliberation falls over his face, and unexpectedly he attempts to rise. Knowing that would only cause him more blood loss and agony, I press a bit harder and he falls back with a moan. His jaw twitches, as if he is trying to speak, and then his eyes suddenly become murky with unshed tears and he chokes, "Watson…hurts…"

The mask I have placed over my own features falters at his words, and for one moment I am neither a doctor nor a soldier; I am only one man trying desperately to stop his dearest friend from dying. My eyes burn and I try fiercely to give him a smile, removing one of my hands to touch his scrawny, bare shoulder.

"I know. I know it does, old chap," I murmur to him. I try my hardest to sound reassuring and composed, to keep my strength for the both of us, but I believe he can see through my attempts…he always can. "You've lost too much blood as it is, Holmes. I'm sorry, but it is absolutely necessary."

Then, he coughs once, and I feel my cracked wall of resolve tumble altogether. I was wrong; it is worse than I feared. He is vomiting red.

Holmes looks at me strangely when I erupt into a string of curses, the comprehension fills his face and he swallows convulsively, his eyes rolling upward.

"Where is my carriage?" I practically scream, caring no more for useless self-control.

"She's comin' shortly, sir," replies the man hastily, who has at some point returned to hover nearby.

"Did you hear him, Holmes?" I say; if I keep speaking to him, perhaps he will have something to latch onto…. "You're going to be all right. The cab is…" The rest is stuck in my throat.

Holmes eyes are drifting shut again, dull and bleary.

"No, Holmes!" I shout, and continue my rant even when he flinches. "Holmes, stay with me. You have to stay awake. I know it's difficult, but you must fight. Fight, Holmes!"

I am not reaching him. He is too far gone.

I grip his shoulders and shake him roughly. "_Holmes_!" He lurches as the pain floods him again. "Holmes, don't do this. Please don't do this. _Fight it_!"

He does not seem to hear me. His breathing is scarce and irregular.

I clutch the jacket and reapply it with cruel force to his wound, but I receive no more than a flicker of eyelids and a twitch of his hand.

"Sherlock!" I've barked the name before I realize it, overwhelmed with an unexplainable anger — whether at him or Fate, I cannot say…possibly myself. "Do _not_ do this to me! Don't you dare do this to me!"

For a moment, he is lucid again, and I truly believe he is coming back. Then, in a broken voice so soft I can barely hear it:

"I'm sorry."

There is no more I can do now. He is leaving. I cannot stop it. Still, words tumble heedlessly from my lips.

"Holmes, don't talk like that, old boy. I am here. I'm going to care for you, d'you hear me? You'll be fine. Don't give up…_Holmes_!"

And then he is gone, my only friend taken from me and surrendered to the darkness.

**To be continued**

* * *

_Do you have any idea how hard it is to think up a bunch of different words to call a nameless killer in a 3,000+-word chapter? I think I called him the same thing at least five times…._


End file.
